Quartel was straddling the bars of the chute with his feet, leaning down to tug at the saddle a couple of times and test the cinches. They finally got the bit in and pulled the rawhide reins up to where Quartel could take hold of them. He waved his free hand, and the man below pulled out the drop bar which held the door of the chute closed. Then they untied the rope from the black's neck and swung open the door. As the beast lunged forward, Quartel dropped into the saddle.
Africano was larger than most brush horses, though not any taller, standing maybe fifteen hands, with a prodigiously muscled rump that indicated more than a little quarter blood, and a savage, vicious action to its every movement. The animal boiled over almost before it had left the chute. Quartel had not found his right stirrup as the beast erupted, but by the time Africano hit the top of its first buck, the man's foot was in the oxbow, and when the black stiff-legged down into the ground, Quartel was set for it.
Even then, his broad, heavy body trembled to the awful jar of it. Crawford's face twisted, and his hands were gripping the bars of the corral with a strange desperation.
The black raced down the corral with a high, collected action and then stopped abruptly with its forelegs jamming the ground like ramrods, pin-wheeling in its own billow of dust. It was all balance with Quartel. Crawford did not think he had ever seen such a relaxed seat on a bucker. The man shifted his weight back and forth almost delicately, gauging each violent movement of the horse to perfection.
"There it goes," said Cabezablanca.
Crawford rose up on his toes against the bars. Africano had started to roll. Quartel stepped off with an incredibly lithe movement for his heavy body, as the horse went down. The black rolled completely over, and Quartel was there ready to swing onto its back again as the animal came up, jamming his feet into the stirrups and raking the animal's dusty, lathered flanks with great Mexican cart-wheel spurs. The black screamed in a frenzied, crazy way as it realized the man was still on its back. With a shrill whinny, it began rolling again, madly, cleverly, devilishly, watching Quartel out of its glassy eyes, heavy chest briny with lather. Crawford watched with a terrible fascination, unaware of how tightly he was hanging onto the bars or how loud and harsh his heavy, labored breathing was.
On its fourth roll, Africano twisted while still on its back and switched ends before coming up, kicking at Quartel with its hind feet. Quartel dodged the kick, shouting something, and slapped the animal's rump to come up over the legs as they struck the ground, hitting the saddle with a jar that drew a gasp from Crawford. Africano raced forward, halted abruptly, pivoted on one hind foot. Quartel was thrown off balance by the spin, and while his weight was still on the off side, the black reared up and fell back deliberately. Quartel had to kick free and jump to keep from being mashed beneath twelve hundred pounds of vicious black demon, and he lost control completely.
The animal came up with a triumphant whinny, whirling toward Quartel. The dust billowed up about the dim shouting movement filling the corral then, and Crawford could see only dimly what happened. A red-bearded hand was galloping in on one of the cutting horses to try and reach the black before it trampled Quartel. But the rider spun the big loop over his head once before throwing it, and the wily black saw it coming and wheeled away.
"Damn you, Innes, why don't you go back to snagging fence posts," shouted Quartel, stumbling to his feet and lurching for the rope. He caught that end and jerked it violently, almost unhorsing Innes as the rope was torn from his hands. Then Quartel whirled around, snaking in the rope with quick, skillful flirts until he had the other end. The red-bearded rider had wheeled and was trying to run into Africano broadside now to force it away from Quartel. But Africano leaped ahead, dodging the man, and wheeled toward Quartel again, that maniacal intent plain in its bloodshot eyes. "Get out of the way," Quartel roared hoarsely at Innes. "I swear you don't know any more about handling horses than a woman. Get out of the way——"
The Mexicans called it a mangana, and not many men could have done it in such a position. The black horse had outmaneuvered Innes, and was racing a dead run at Quartel. Quartel stood there with the rope in both hands, not even spinning it, a confident grin on his face. When the black was so near it looked certain to run Quartel down, the man made his toss. It was a California throw, down low without a spin so the horse could not spot it until the loop was actually in the air. Quartel snapped the rope behind him at his hip, then dragged it forward with a swift flirt of his wrist, hand pointed down and the loop swinging out so that it practically stood on edge. It was timed perfectly. Quartel took one step away like a bullfighter, and the puro negro thundered past him, so close its lathered shoulder twitched his charro jacket, and ran headlong into that loop standing there. Quartel turned away with the rope across his hip, and his thick body jerked hard as the horse snapped the rope taut and fell headlong. Then he casually dropped the rope to the ground and walked away, while other hands ran in with the short tie ropes they called peales, to hog-tie the vicious beast while it was still down.